The Hermit
Ioachime Diemchuk





Place of Birth:

Khirovorhad, Ukraine

Date of Birth:

2 October, 1946

Hair/Eye Color:



5' 2" / 130 lbs


Member of TAROT


Tuesday, May 3, 1974. Genoa, Italy.

"Mister Berlesoni? Your 4:00 to see you, sir."

"Mm? Oh, yes. Send him in, Angela."

Benso Berlesoni relished the thought of what he was about to do to this man. His resume was absurd. If he wasn't in need of the pick-me-up, he would have simply thrown it in the trash. But, he'd had a horrible day so far, and seeing that disheartened look on the face of another failed applicant would go a long way towards turning it around.

His 4:00 shuffled through the door. The man's suit was old, worn, and cheap. The man himself was small, unimposing, and looked not so much portly as soft around the edges, fuzzy almost. He wore a strained look on his face as if he were barely fighting off a bad migraine.

"Mister... Dem-chack... is it? Please, sit down," said Benso, smiling pleasantly.

"It's pronounced Diemchuk, sir," corrected the man in perfect, accentless Italian. He didn't sit down, and fixed his gaze squarely in the middle of Berlesoni's forehead.

Benso coughed to clear his throat, and began: "Sorry, Mister Demma-chack. My mistake. I'm not at all sorry to tell you that your application has not only been rejected, it has been posted around the office as a way to show our clerks what not to do. It is, to put it bluntly, the worst application we've ever seen. The only reason I'm not having security throw you out of the building right now is because it amuses me to insult you for a few minutes whilst you stand there looking at me like a stunned haddock."

Diemchuk blinked.

Benso continued, "In fact, I may just tell every other contact I have in Genoa... no, all of Italy, just how much of a moron you are. Who do you think you are, applying for an executive position, with no experience, no formal schooling, and no references? Hmm? Do you know what company this is? We are the second-largest supplier of paper in the Mediterranean, and you come into my building with this?"

Benso held up the man's "resume" with two fingers, as if afraid to be infected by it, an evil grin settling on his face. "Just what do you have to say for yourself?" he scoffed.

"Only this, sir." said Diemchuk. "I only applied to this shit-hole of a company so that I might meet you in person. You see, I know you are small cheese. I'm not here to talk to you... I'm here to talk to TAROT."

Benso sat agog for a moment, amazed at the man's brazenness. Then he started laughing. A minute later, he regained enough composure to speak.

"I -- oh, my God, you're serious, aren't you? We have nothing to do with that nefarious crim--" he said, interrupted by Diemchuk's nigh-emotionless, soft voice.

"You heard correctly, sir. I know that this business is part of TAROT mainly because of the increased activity it sees whenever EuroGuard does anything anywhere around Genoa. Also, this building consumes three point eight times as much power as any other building in the city, has twice as much parking space as it needs, and has never had to worry about zoning laws or taxes. All of that speaks to some sort of organized crime. However, there are none of the usual indicators that would tell me this was a front of the Mafia. Therefore, the most likely answer is TAROT. Unless I miss my guess, and I haven't, you and your associates use this business to launder money for TAROT."

Benso was dumbstruck. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a high-pitched, frightened croak.

"You are going to give me a job, you are going to pay me exceedingly well, and you are going to do your best to ensure that I meet whoever is in charge of you. You're going to dismiss the thoughts of having me killed, because if you have me killed you and your associates will be in jail by nightfall." The old man smirked. "I left detailed instructions, you see. And for the last time, my name is Diemchuk."

Benso straightened his tie and snapped out of it. He pushed a hidden button on the underside of his desk, and a drawer slid out of the paneling. Lifting the handle of the phone the drawer concealed, he spoke quietly for just a moment. When he was done, he replaced the receiver and looked again at the old man.

"Very well, Mister Dyemme-chukk," said Benso, for the first time pronouncing the man's name correctly. Someone will be up to speak to you presently. Welcome to TAROT."

Personality and MotivationsEdit

Ioachime Diemchuk is a cold, aloof, private person. He has shunned almost all human contact throughout his life, and has little to no idea of how to interact with others in anything but the coldest, most disconnected way. His life is books, internet chess games, computers, and study.

He gets paid an amazing amount to be The Emperor's primary advisor and strategist, and his interaction with TAROT's leadership council and his fellow "supervillains" (he hardly considers himself one, despite the reality of his situation) have actually drawn him out of his otherwise antisocial shell to a point. But only to a point.

He's in it for the money, and only the money. He personally couldn't care less if his assistance makes TAROT more successful or not, as long as his cashflow isn't interrupted. He likes the finer things in life, and as he knows precisely how much longer he has to live (he can see the patterns of his own life, after all), he intends to enjoy every second he can.


"I so severely enjoy these massive wastes of my valuable time. Please, continue to hamper my enjoyment of the day with your inane yammerings..."

Powers and AbilitiesEdit

The Hermit can see patterns. His mind automatically maps out the infinite permutations of cause-and-effect. It comes as naturally to him and with as much thought as breathing or cellular division. He sees these patterns everywhere, and can tell what is happening, what has happened, and what will happen, whether he wants to or not. When he really concentrates on a specific pattern, The Hermit can, usually with pinpoint accuracy, know exactly what will happen down to the second.

His pattern-recognition lends itself to an advanced, almost instinctual knowledge of mathematics, chemistry, computer programming, tactics, language skills, and basically any other field of academic study. In a fight, he's barely any good, being the old and frail man he looks like. But he is usually the man behind any major plan that TAROT makes, so he rarely lets himself get into a situation in which he would have to fight anyone.

Unfortunately for him, his powers leave him wide open for sensory overload. He rarely ever leaves his home for fear of seeing too many patterns for his mind to hold. He suffers from migraines near-constantly as it is, and as such it leaves him a bitter, short-tempered, irritating man.


The Hermit is a short, balding, slightly round-looking man of about 64 years. His hair, though considerably thinner than it was in his youth, is still just as blonde as it was forty years ago. He still wears a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses out of habit, even though he had the foresight to fix his vision via laser surgery years ago.

The Hermit usually wears a standard TAROT jumpsuit and helmet when in the field, or at a TAROT base. When at home, he wears an old, comfortable set of pajamas and a bath robe, with bunny slippers.